Becoming Josephine (25 page)

“Shame on you.” I led her across the room to a painting I had admired twice before. “You could have feigned interest to spare his feelings.”

She rolled her eyes. “He looked as if he hasn’t bathed in weeks.”

I giggled. “Still, you could have been kinder.”

“At least he won’t ask me again.”

“Certainly not.” We stopped before a self-portrait of Isabey with his daughter, one of my favorites. “I haven’t spoken to Paul all evening. I fear he is taken with the brunette.”

“Darling, he’s always chasing someone. Perhaps you should move on.”

I studied the little girl’s dress in the painting. “Marvelous, the way he paints fabric. See how the folds in her frock catch the light? They look soft.”

“Stunning.”

“Perhaps I should find a husband.”

“You don’t mean that.” She leaned closer to examine the strokes. “You adore your freedom.”

“I’m not sure what I adore any longer.”

Crisp autumn air blew in as the month turned to Vendémiaire, but the falling temperatures did not cool the rumors. The country was bankrupt and Royalists would invade to restore the crown. Riots broke out in the streets. Many friends whispered of hopes for the monarch’s return.

I hoped Barras would quell the disorder.

I sat writing letters to the children when the sound of an approaching carriage floated through the open window. Someone had come? I sprang from my seat and peered out. The setting sun poured amber light over the lawn.

Paul’s coach pulled into the drive. He had not visited me for weeks. Relief and uncertainty swept through me. I hoped nothing was wrong.

“Mimi,” I called, “put on tea and prepare some refreshments. Barras is here.”

Mimi put down her feather duster. “Should I set a place for supper?”

“I will let you know.”

Paul’s footsteps thundered through the front hall. I rushed to greet him.

“It is good to see you,
mon ami
.” We kissed on either cheek. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“I could use a jolt.” He set his pistol and sword on a table with a clunk. “I haven’t slept for days.”

We sat in the salon as Mimi placed a tray stacked with galettes and quiche before us.

“What’s happened?” I selected a
sablé
. The buttery cookie crumbled in my hand and onto my lap. I brushed at the crumbs.

Paul dug into a slice of quiche. “Royalists plan to overthrow the government in two days. They’ve surrounded the Tuileries. I’ve commissioned a general to take matters into his hands.”

“So the rumors are true? There will be more riots?”

“I believe so. I came to warn you. Leave Paris. Go to Croissy or Fontainebleau. I’ll send you word when it’s safe to return.” He popped an entire
sablé
into his mouth.

“I’ll pick up Eugène tonight and leave first thing in the morning.” I had witnessed enough bloodshed to last a lifetime.

Eugène and I stayed with Désirée and the Marquis in Fontainebleau. Six days later a letter arrived from Barras.

12 Vendémiaire III

Chère Rose,

All is well. The Assembly survives, the Republic lives! Several hundred men were lost, but the message was sent—the Republic will triumph. You may return when you choose, but I would be honored for you to accompany me to a celebration at the Palais du Luxembourg septidi next, honoring my new protégé and nominated head of the Army of the Interior.

General Vendémiaire we call him.

I hope you will join me.

Je t’embrasse,

Paul

A shift was at hand. For Barras to appoint a new general-in-chief and throw him a celebration meant the man was important, indeed. I would attend in all my finery—to connect with Barras’s new right-hand man, to secure my influence from all sides.

The new general might prove useful.

Rue Chant
ereine, 1795–1796

“I
have someone I would like you to meet,” Barras said on the night of his celebration.

“Who would that be?” I asked innocently, nibbling a petit four—delicious, sugar-coated perfection.

“My star general. He’s a bit unsightly and aggressive, but purposeful. Someone you should know. Perhaps you could teach him some manners.”

“Manners? Goodness, that doesn’t sound good. Is this the general that has everyone worked into a frenzy?” I asked, looking down at my frock. If my dress did not win the general over, he wasn’t male. I’d had it designed after a painting of Venus, the Roman goddess of love. Folds of pale blue muslin fell from my décolletage and an opening in the bodice revealed the dewy skin of my right thigh, visible through sheer stockings. Silver-strapped sandals wrapped my ankles and calves, and a delicate wreath of flowers decorated the curls piled high on my head. Theresia mirrored my style in pale green. A handful of guests had clapped when we arrived. We laughed and swished across the dance floor like nymphs.

Barras led me through the room. “Yes, and he’s my new appointed head of the Army of Italy and the Army of the Interior. I find him . . . amusing.”

“How so?”

“You will see.”

As we approached the general, my hand flew to my mouth. This man? It was the same bedraggled soldier whom Theresia had spurned and mocked. He could not be the hero of the Republic!

His uniform engulfed his meager frame. His scuffed boots had lost their shine. Unkempt brown hair hung over his collar and looked as if it had not been washed in weeks. As Theresia had said, it appeared the general did not practice hygiene.

I looked at Barras for assurance. He nodded. I recoiled inwardly. What an ungainly man—hero or no.

“
Bonsoir
, Bonaparte,” Barras said, shaking his hand.

The general stood a little straighter. “Good evening.” He spoke with an Italian accent.

“May I present to you, the widow Rose de Beauharnais.”

“
Citoyenne.
” Bonaparte bowed his head, gripping his brandy glass a little tighter. His fingers turned red, then white.

I waved my white silk fan. “General Bonaparte, how very nice to meet you.”

The general said nothing. His blue-gray eyes appeared cold and flat like cobblestones. No warmth emanated from his person, yet his intensity was distinctly noticeable.

I smiled to ease the tension. “You’ve accomplished an amazing feat. Extinguishing the violence and commanding a group of rebels. Paris rests easy tonight knowing our safety is in your hands.”

“It
was
amazing. Tactical, really,” he answered through tight lips.

My smile froze on my face. Unkempt and arrogant. What a man! Such a combination would not endear him to the exalted company he sought, not for long.

He stared straight ahead and said nothing more.

Barras laughed and clapped him on the back. “I like your self-confidence, man.”

General Bonaparte didn’t smile or answer.

Paul swigged from his glass and said, “If you two will excuse me, I need to speak with Monsieur Ouvrard.” He left in a rush.

I would scold him for leaving me with this man. I cleared my throat. “You must have some intriguing stories, as a soldier and hero.”

“Of course.” His eyes roved over my frame.

A loud clanging—the dinner announcement—interrupted our pitiful attempt at conversation.

I touched his arm gently. “I am meeting a few of my lady friends. Perhaps we can chat later?”

“All right,” he said, staring at my gloved hand.

“Wonderful to meet you, general. Good evening.”

Bonaparte bowed and made his way toward Barras.

I rushed in the opposite direction. What a relief to be rid of him, the odd little man.

Escaping the general was not easy. His unnerving eyes followed me the remainder of the evening. After much dancing, I glistened with perspiration and sought the courtyard for fresh air. Couples sat along the outer rings of the garden, locked in embraces or engrossed in conversation.

I ran my fingers along the cool surface of the fountain. Amazing detail, the way the artist had made the marble appear fluid, lustrous. I peered into its pool at my reflection. My gown shimmered like an apparition in the moonlight.

I turned at the sound of footsteps.

General Bonaparte. His eyes sparkled, hard as diamonds in their hollowed sockets, and his long nose protruded from his bony face. He studied me from head to toe as if memorizing every detail.

“You’ve enjoyed dancing this evening, Citoyenne de Beauharnais.”

He had manners after all.

“I love to dance. Don’t you, general?”

He stiffened. “I don’t partake in activities that make me look a fool. I’m a soldier. My dance is on the battlefield.”

“That’s a shame. Women love to dance.” I gave him a flirtatious smile. A cool breeze made the hair on my arms stand on end.

“Indeed.” He stared through the thin material of my dress.

“A lovely evening.” I looked up at the moonlit sky.

Bonaparte took my hand in his.

“General?” I startled at his touch.

“May I read your palm?” He began to stroke it. “I’m well versed in reading fortunes.”

“You?” I laughed. “I would have never guessed. You’re so . . . guarded.”

“I’m from Corsica. We take palm reading very seriously.”

“As do I.” I grinned, amused by his brazen behavior. “What does my future hold?”

He pulled my hand closer. His hot breath tickled my skin while he traced the lines with his finger. After a short study, he froze, then dropped my hand as if it were a poisonous snake.

I laughed. “Goodness, what do you see?”

His face paled. “
Mi perdoni
 . . . I must go.” He turned on his heel and fled. Without a backward glance or a word to anyone, he escaped into the night.

The general’s behavior fascinated me. I couldn’t imagine what had upset him. It was my palm, after all. When I told Barras, he said I would grow used to the general’s unusual mannerisms, maybe even grow to like him.

I doubted that.

The next time I saw Bonaparte, I visited him of my own volition. He had ordered the surrender of all unauthorized arms in the city to prevent further tumult after the recent coup—without exceptions.

Eugène became enraged.

“I won’t surrender Papa’s sword! It’s my inheritance. I have nothing else left of him!” He balled his hands into fists and paced our small salon. The wood floor groaned beneath him.

“I know it’s upsetting, darling, but you can’t disobey.” I envisioned my adolescent son standing before the Committee of Public Safety. I shivered. “You
must
.”

Pain filled his eyes, a dagger to my heart. How I grieved to see him distraught for the love of his father.

“But Maman,” he pleaded, “you know many ministers on the committee. Isn’t there someone who owes you a favor?”

My son knew his mother well. I made sure others owed me as I owed them. I moved to the front window. Passersby hustled along the street in the dismal weather, their hats brimming with rainwater.

“I’ve already asked Barras,” I said. “It was out of his hands. The general-in-chief—” I stopped midsentence. “The general-in-chief is Bonaparte!”

“Who’s Bonaparte?” Eugène asked. He ran his hand along the intricate scabbard. One could not help but be impressed by its brass etchings.

“The general who gave the order. He might be persuaded with the right prompting. Put on your nicest uniform. Polish your boots. We’ll go this afternoon.”

Bonaparte sat at his desk, head bent. The vast ceilings and immense windows dwarfed his already small frame. Surprise registered on his features as I closed the door behind us. He dropped his quill pen on a map labeled “Italian States.” Several books lay open around it and papers cluttered his tabletop.

“How the devil can you read?” I peered at him in the semidarkness. “Have you no oil for your lamps?”

“Citoyenne de Beauharnais.” He jumped to his feet, ears turning as red as the collar of his jacket. “What brings you here?”

I eyed his new uniform. What a difference clothes made.

“May I present my son, Eugène de Beauharnais. Eugène, General Bonaparte.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, general.” Eugène saluted, then returned a possessive hand to his sword.

“What brings you here on such a dreary day?” He flitted from lamp to lamp, lighting them in haste. The vaulted ceilings appeared less cavernous as light cheered the ambience.

“We received some very distressing news—”

“Excuse me, Maman,” Eugène interrupted me. “General, if I may?”

Bonaparte nodded.

My son squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “You’ve commanded the surrender of all weapons. I do not wish to refute your order, but I came to plead my case. My sword belonged to my father, a Patriot and soldier like you. He was unjustly imprisoned and executed for crimes he did not commit.”

Eugène exhaled a ragged breath to control his emotion. “All I have . . .” He swallowed. “All that remains of him, of his honor, is his sword. I will become a soldier soon myself, and it would be a great honor to carry it. Please, general—”

Bonaparte held up a hand to stop him. Eugène bristled, bracing for a rebuff. “Young man, you may keep your father’s sword.”

Eugène exhaled a breath and bowed his dark head. “Thank you, general. I’ll be forever grateful.”

Pride swelled in my chest. My son had grown into a man.

Bonaparte’s rigid frame relaxed. His eyes softened. “You’re welcome.”

“
Chéri
,” I said to Eugène, “would you step into the hall for a moment? I’d like to speak to the general. Alone.”

“Of course, Maman. General.” He replaced his hat and saluted Bonaparte, palm forward.

When the door closed, I eliminated the distance between us until only the corner of the desk remained. “You can’t imagine what that sword means to him. Or what it means to me that you allowed him to keep it. Thank you.”

Bonaparte cleared his throat and shifted his posture. “He’s a passionate young man. He’ll make a fine soldier.”

“He longs for that day. I only hope he may be as inspiring a soldier as you are,” I said.